


Blue that Blossoms Brightly

by FabularumScriptorem217



Series: Blue [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blue Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Character Death, Spirits, Trauma, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabularumScriptorem217/pseuds/FabularumScriptorem217
Summary: “Blue…”They know it is time.“Blue Spirit…”They run—“Blue Spirit, please let my…”Words whispered reverently to them and only them.They had just wanted to help— and so they did.
Series: Blue [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839013
Comments: 50
Kudos: 461





	Blue that Blossoms Brightly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MikkiOfTheAnbu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikkiOfTheAnbu/gifts), [KidWestHope16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KidWestHope16/gifts), [MuffinLance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuffinLance/gifts).



> This work is a part of my series Blue, it is **inspired by _blade of silver, forge of blue_ by: [MikkiOfTheAnbu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikkiOfTheAnbu) ** and **_Atla Au outlines to write later (Chapter 25)_ by [KidWestHope16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KidWestHope16/) **. 
> 
> I don't own the characters they are either atla, inspired by **[MuffinLance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuffinLance)** or **[ZenzaNightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenzaNightwing)** , and some are mine. 
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> **Trigger Warning:** Implied/referenced character death; grieving; referenced miscarriage; effects of war and colonization

### Interlude:

Between this world and the other world, there is a river a stream an ocean of rainbowed waters, colorful and other. It is where the veins of their world, the spirit world, pool and like La like the oceans of the other world—the human world—they push and pull, adamant in their desire to impede the movement between. They run greedy fingers through spirit and mortal alike, ripping, tearing, drowning. The strings within the stream tangle, slowing movement, and there is nothing more beautiful and horrendous than to choke and drown and burn on glowing other. Other other, that isn’t to be soaked in, to be breathed in. There is a reason there once were portals between. The Blue Spirit had bathed in the blood of the spirit world, swam through rainbowed streams that threatened to slow and pull them under, and they had risen. They had burned and entered the spirit world from a broken burnt ruin of a ship, and they had burned and appeared in a forest, not glowing, not rainbowed, just green just brown, other—human. 

They walk by themselves and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. Not watching, their spirits do not care to watch them, to judge them. And it is harder and easier, easier than facing the spirits, than having to appear clever, trickster, other. The Blue Spirit is all of those, but how do they explain as they wish they could, that they did not come here to bring trouble, but light. 

So, they stood.

The Blue Spirit stood, not under a darkened sky, but under Agni, ready. Ready at once, for they had run fast fast faster to be here and now—to help. Upon their arrival in the human world—the other world—they had at first simply watched, as Agni does, as spirits do, the humans, _humans_ who carried a spark, the spark of life, and wondered _why had they ever been separated?_

Warmth, their father with them, they walk and _there is a ringing, the song in their ears their veins_ , and regardless of how the ground, the earth, below grumbles, they are doing what they are meant to do. Walking, green and green and brown, a wash of colors, streaked with the blue of the sky and the rising sun, Agni, the forest breaks before a village. Biyu. _A tiny village, warm expressions and kind words, shrouded in morning mist bright and simple tucked in the woods, a burnt handprint on a pillar, the gateway. A treasonous thought—please please don’t let them burn, keep them safe._

They touch, hand to blackened hand—a promise.

The Blue Spirit, dirt below them, they are black and blue—a shadow, as they enter the village. It is still early, still morning, but Agni nears his height above, morning not for long. Houses, a dozen or so, earth and wood and stone encircled by a low wall, they walk towards center and feel the hum in the earth, laughing. They stand under Agni’s light, not hidden, not shadowed, and are seen. Unsure—the are watched.

The Blue Spirit  
_—screams in the morning the sounds of rushing water and a bridge break break breaking. She had been humming._

…and a little Earth Kingdom girl, Duri. They had saved a child before—before. They had rescued— they had… Duri, happy happy excited written into the lines of her being, had run to them. No hesitation. Spark warm. Spirits always keep their promises (even if they don’t remember). She wants to play, and they long to join, but— 

_"Not now,"_ they say, _"not yet."_

They are here for a reason.

Hesitance on her tongue, brows furrowed, but she was taught too well to question, not them, never a spirit. Small, a child, wrapped in warmth, the soft greens and browns of the Earth, kind. 

" _Later,_ " they promise, they cannot help but promise.

She smiles, big big bigger, and her spark is as bright as she is. Duri turns, dark hair flying out behind her. Later. They have come for a reason. Blue turns and they walk. 

Agni breaking, lingering, upon their shoulders, there is a door, wooden, they enter—Agni does not follow.

* * *

_Spirits are cruel, they may not mean to be, but they are—for they do not understand humans. They are not human. How people define fair, how people define just, it is not the same. Fairness and Justice do not mean the same to them. They are forever and they are not mortal, they cannot understand. Spirits do not lie, and they cannot break promises made. To make a promise to a spirit is a risk to take, and to break it or to lie to them—never, never lie or break a promise to them._ Yanmei was taught of the spirits, she had been taught of the proper respect that should be deferred to when interacting with them, when speaking with them. She had been taught the importance of balancing debts, and how they can carry on to their children or on to their next life. It is important, the wording is important, they are not human they do not understand. And she had been warned, as she sat beside her mother beside her father beside her younger brother she had sat, and she had been warned that the best option—the best thing to do was simply to avoid interaction with them (spirits are to be appeased through tradition and prayer, not spoken with directly—not in person). Yanmei watched as her daughter who had been taught of spirits the best Yanmei could, with her husband at the warfront and all the work left to her, she had watched as her Duri had ran straight up to a spirit, no hesitation, and withheld a sigh. It would not do well to appear ungrateful.

Spirit, the Blue Spirit— _emerging from the water, she had stood on shore screaming, begging anyone anything to save her daughter. Yanmei had tried to dive in after, she had heard the bridge break she had heard her daughter scream and she had run, she would have dove in, she would have died with her daughter, but the men on shore had held her back. And the water had parted, two heads appeared, her child her baby, and blue. Blue Blue Blue. Wooden and fanged and other. They had brought her daughter to shore and had passed her over without bargaining._ The Blue Spirit had saved her daughter, had returned her daughter, left blessing in brown soft braids and promised to return.

They had promised her daughter to return— and they had,  
( _Spirits always keep their promises_ ).

The Blue Spirit had other business to attend to within their village, Yanmei felt her chest ache, relief or fear she did not know. 

Blue, blue face—wooden, horns and fangs, and a deadly white grin. That softens when speaking with Duri, when speaking with the children. A face that was painted across papers throughout the Kingdom, a bounty on their heads wanted by Fire, as if they did not know they were spirit, as if spirits could be held to mortal laws. _They are not human, they are not the same._

Yanmei watched, the light that trailed after blue, no cloud daring to come between the two. Yanmei watched and wondered of all she knows of spirits, how much held true with this one, Blue.

* * *

_They have come for a purpose, a reason. Wood rough under gloved hands, surrounded by stone, they push. And the door opens._

_They have come for a purpose, a reason. Agni trails after, lingering upon their shoulders, golden. They let the door close, alone._

* * *

Days, there were days when Hualing felt as if this would be it, that this—this was what the war had stolen from them, and that this would be their undoing. Hualing worked as a healer, a midwife, for all of Biyu. She knew of the difficulties bearing a child in a war torn world would be, she knew that if the mother was in a larger city she would be safer, she knew that if they had been able to keep in touch with other villages— Hualing would know more, be better prepared, better able to help this baby be born. Too early, too small. She wants to curse the Fire Nation from the mountains to the plains, but this was not them ( ~~not just them~~ ). Earth had rolled itself over, they had buried their head in the sand, drawn their line. They had decided to consolidate, to build walls, and decide that this village was all there is, all they should protect. From the mountains to the plains, they had decided, tiny villages, alone and isolated. If Omashu had responded when she had sent her missive, if there were other healers, if Hualing had been more experienced… there was no room for ifs in a birthing room. The baby was coming, and they were coming now. Ready or not. 

It had been hours, she had spent hours apprentice beside her, the future father before her next to the future mother, wiping her brow. The air was heavy, thick, filled with sweat—the work of bringing life and the fears alongside it. The parents they had prayed they said, they had prayed at the alter Biyu had build. This one would live. This one would hopefully live.

The war had taken much from everyone—the isolation and lost knowledge might be it.

Sweat on her brow and fatigue in her limbs. The door opened wooden and worn, it opened onto a small room, smaller still with the bodies inside it. Hualing turned, this work was hard and interruptions were not welcome (the risk of infection— ). 

Blue. Wooden and Blue.

The Blue Spirit stood in the entryway all eyes drawn to them.

The Blue Spirit had returned.

Hualing had been away, surrounded by green, gathering herbs when the bridge had broken, when a spirit had walked themself into the village, with the life of one of theirs in arm, and had then walked themself back out—blessings in their wake. Hualing had been away from the village and so had not seen how the light had shifted around it, how the water parted as if it was not there, as if it could not compare to the strength of a spirit. She had not seen them. Blue and white, fanged and horned, grinning. She had not seen them. She did now.

But there was a baby on the way—she turned back to her work,  
(if her hands trembled only the three spirits knew).

Looking away did not stop the hair upon her arms, her neck, from rising. It did not stop the stone that had formed in her stomach, larger growing larger still the nearer the spirit came, Oma and Shu raised mountains within her as the spirit approached.

Looking away did not stop the way her heart her lungs her being felt, knew, something was to happen.

But there was a baby on the way—she turned back to her work.

She turned to her work, the sounds of the strain of birth from the mother the only in this small, smaller still room. There were words earlier, tumbling—a rockslide from the father’s lips. Reverent. Fearful. But when the spirit, the Blue Spirit did not acknowledge but simply turned to watch (she could feel the watching, the eyes, the feeling of other building upon her shoulders), and the words ceased, and it was quiet. Quiet, but for the commands from Hualing to her apprentice, to the mother, ~~to the spirits~~. 

It is hours, they work and it is hours and they can almost forget the spirit here with them. But for the other upon them, the hesitant shaky breaths and trembling limbs. They did not teach her how to assist a birth that a spirit oversees. 

The room is quiet, the sounds of the labor ended when the goal had been achieved, when the baby had joined them. The mother, — _she had reached out to Omashu they hadn’t responded, they were on their own, the isolation, the knowledge lost_ —the mother looks to her, and sobs.

Quiet, broken only by the wails of the mother,  
( _the baby is here and he is quiet_ ).

He is quiet compared to the sobs of his mother, the only wails entering this small room, smaller still with all the people in it. 

A hand enters her vision, she is holding the baby, quiet, still, she had thought to pass him to his mother but hadn’t quite yet, setting him in green, he would need to be cleaned—he would need to be cleaned for burial. A hand enters her vision, black and gloved. Hualing looks up, blue.

_Blue Spirit._

She had wanted to curse the spirits, another baby lost, she had tried—she had tried so hard.

And here was one.

Hualing had not been in the village, when they had left blessings in the hair of children and the gateway of tiny broken villages. She had not seen the kindness they had shown the people, shown Duri. She had not seen them when they had come before.

They had not taken Duri as they could have. 

The villagers, Chuanli, claims they are kind.

She passes cold, too small too early, to black and blue and white. 

* * *

_Words whispered to them and only them._

Their ears were ringing singing an echo _an echo_ of the words filled with fear and desperation, of tentative hope and bargaining. _Blue Spirit please let my—_ they had heard. Blue Oolong, not Jasmine, on their tongue—they would answer. They would answer.

Standing Blue, in a room, small, filled with people. They watch they see. There is the Healer and there is the Apprentice. There is the Mother and there is the Father. And they, they are here. Here. Filled with people yet missing one. Heavy with the weight of their actions and the spirits beside them (they were not the only watching). Air that presses down down down upon them, air that vibrates with impatience, Feng is not patient. Hours and hours they know it will be, they will be patient, they can be patient (golden rays dance and jump, laugh), they can wait. 

They wait.

The human, the mother, face strained and reddened she pants, her hand grasping that of her husband, the father whose hand whitens with her grip _Kneeling before a hastily built alter, lovingly built alter. His shoulders broad and his head bowed. Smoke fills the air, wavering uncertain. It settles heavy upon those shoulders, unfelt. Words whispered, carefully voice breaking with the blue that enters his vision. Water drips, falls upon the earth (stubborn and unyielding earth), but is felt. Careful not quite promises, choked out into the air (impatient and flighty air), but is heard. His fingers drag, pull at the earth, dirt under his nails. Tea placed properly before him, he speaks. Tui above, he speaks, flame before him. Haltingly, in fragments and half told stories. Silver light (here and never there, light), battles the dark of the forest and touches darkened hair, and is seen. He asks, with the sound of a river (lungs burning drowning gasping) in accompaniment. He rises—face lit with dancing flames (everchanging and never stilling flames), smoke settled upon him, dirt on his head, and is heard. There is dark under his eyes, reddened. He stands and bows._

He had washed the dirt from his head but it lingers under his nails, on hands whitened from his wife’s grip. They can feel the warmth that comes from them both, their spark, it is kind.

They wait.

(There is the Healer and there is the Apprentice. There is the Mother and there is the Father. Here they are shocked and here are their bows. Soon comes a baby…)

Words are said, reverent and fearful, respectful— _if fear was how respect was determined,_ but the Blue Spirit has no ear for them. They walk, wood underfoot, to stand behind the healer, across from worried glances. It is quiet, nothing to be said, nothing is said but the instructions from the healer—the shaking healer. 

The mother pushes, veins prominent, sound pulled from lips. They had been trying for a long time. It is not the first time— _happy glances, hand over belly, protective and careful_ —they had been pregnant; it is not the first time— _hours of labor, shaky breaths, and pushing always pushing_ —it is not the first time that she had given birth. But this will be their first child,  
(none have taken a breath; none have joined them).

 _Cold, they are cold. Small too early too small. She huddles over them, bringing them to her chest. Eyes closed, small, still. Her husband arms around her, they sob. Tears and laying in bed, watching the sun rise and set, never leaving. A deep ache within her chest, empty, she had been ready, they had been ready and—months days years and she holds another, cold. She wants to join them, her husband broad and strong, holds her. Holds her, never give up without a fight, he holds her. Makes promises he knows he cannot keep, he holds her as if he holds her tight enough he can put this back together. They had tried—they had tried—_

They wait.

It is long, hours and hours, since the Blue Spirit had joined them. In a room too small too crowded, with a healer feeling increasingly unprepared, she worries (it is not her fault).

She prays and curses in turn, they do not mind.

They wait.

Quiet, all action stilled,  
(the only sobs that fill the room are those of the mother).

She had waited, hope in her eyes, in the way her spark jumps. She had waited, but heard nothing, saw nothing in the healer’s face—and screamed. Her husband, face crumpling beside her, breaking, shoulders shaking, they cried. _But the baby did not._

They reach for—

The healer pauses, green eyes grieving, _her fault it is all her fault (it is not)_ , uncertain, she knows better than to hand a child to a spirit…but the baby does not cry as his mother does—she hands over the child. Gently ever so gently.

Spirit, ( _they do not interfere, they are cruel, they are not human, they cannot understand…_ )

 **Blue Spirit,** cradles the child—the boy, gently.

And the room is quiet, it does not breathe as the child does not.  
Too early, too small.

They had never held a child before, a baby before. Tufts of darkened hair upon his darkened head, like his father, like his mother. Eyes closed, his chest does not rise. Heavy, so heavy in their arms. He is tiny and small and heavy. Coated in the mess of his birth, unaware of the attention paid to him, the tears shed for him. Laid in a blanket, dark as the leaves after rain, small. Soft and small and cold. The Blue Spirit knows of what the earth would tell them, the three spirits of the mountain, of what the world itself would say _they are not to interfere, there is life and there is death._

( _...if people got hurt or killed well that's what they do..._ ) 

They are not to interfere.

Black, their gloved thumb is drawn across a small wrinkled head, over his brows. Fanged, they are grinning always grinning, face blue and wooden. Wood touches flesh, they can feel cold and soft, hair. Head to head, thumb over an unbeating heart.

They wait. 

Quiet, impossibly quiet, no one dares interfere, no one dares break the quiet. Cries and cries fill the air, shrieks from healthy lungs, he cries and so does his mother. Dragging thumb across head once more, they pass the baby—the child, the boy to grasping desperate arms.

There is the Mother and there is the Father, and there is the Baby.

 _“Be Healthy,”_ the Blue Spirit promises.

Spirits always keep their promises. 

* * *

Head touching wood, Xiang feels his mouth moving, spouting words and tradition—offering thanks and repayment, but he does not think. He feels a stone digging into his knee, brought in by their boots most likely; and he feels how his hand throbs, the one his wife had held; and he feels how his lungs drag in another shaking breath, his chest sore from the sobs that wracked it. Xiang feels this but it is carefully coated in a layer of dust and dirt alongside his thoughts caked in mud. He can’t think, his eyes sting and his chest heaves. He had lost his child, again. They had tried so hard, hoping praying that this time they would bring a healthy child into this world. This time they would make it to term, healthy and strong and breathing. _His wife, blood between her legs, sobbing as she falls to the floor._ Xiang had brought himself to temple, before Oma and Shu and the Three Spirits, time and time again. Just, this time—there was one more he could go before, to petition, to beg, and barely hold himself back from making promises he should not keep. _His wife, staring out at nothing. Tears running down a silent face, begging he had begged her—he had cooked and brought food, held her tight, kissed her cheek and tasted salt._ He wants a child, they want a child, but his wife would not forgive him if the cost was too high, his wife—his wife, he would not forgive himself if the cost was too high. And his wife had already fallen sick, constrained to her bed, to bring the best chance to them both. _Xiang, kneeling before a hastily built alter, in honor of a spirit that had already saved one of Biyu, a little girl—a little Earth Kingdom girl, Duri; and have already saved them from fire and burnt homes and people. He brought tea, Oolong, Blue-Oolong tea. They had asked for blue last time, only blue last time and he hoped—he hoped it would help. It was dark, moon half-full above, he gently placed the tea, hands shaking, he gently placed head to earth, smelt rain damp grass, and he’d prayed, voice breaking as tears touch dirt. He was careful with his wording still, his wife would not forgive him if—_ but this one, this one had been kind, he had helped before. 

Head touching wood, worn from the years his wife and him had lived here. He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t think, as his wife held theirs, hopefully theirs. His baby, born too early too small, no cries to herald his arrival but theirs. The Blue Spirit had took him and Xiang couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t— _Blue Spirit, please, please_ —he hadn’t promised the child to it, words sliding out unthought, he didn’t know. He watched, the Master Spirit cradling their child, cold and still, and he watched as he traced a mark (a promise) onto their head before laying theirs upon his. He had watched—he had heard as his baby began to shriek and cry and those wails broke through their walls into the village into the day, and they were _everything_ he had prayed for.

Face wet, he had stared at the child wrapped in the arms of his mother, his child, and knew it was worth it. Dropping to his knees, he had pressed head to wood and felt himself expand bigger greater more, he was warm. His child, their child would live.

He offered repayment.

Head to wood, he offered repayment.

The spirit hums and Xiang chances a look, to catch their gaze, to catch what they would want in turn, Blue.

Wood under knees, kneeling beside their bed with his wife bowed over their child, their alive child, held gently but firmly (she would not let him go). Xiang followed the spirit’s gaze, when his wife had taken to bed and they had feared for her and their child, he had filled the house with blue, their home—potential offerings and payment. Exhausted weary, her lips had quirked when his wife had saw the flowers he had added to their dresser, the flowers he had brought, Lobelia, her favorite (he wanted to raise her spirits, their hope), her favorite but in blue.

_Blue._

Xiang stutter stumbles though offering them, all of them, any of them, however many they wanted. Flowers were not really a price to pay, a loss, they had given them a life, Xiang would have given them his home and more if needed (he would have given his life, if it would not have broken his wife). 

Walking, the spirit—the Blue Spirit, head tilted carefully picked one, two, three. Xiang watches as they wrap two, one upon each wrist, one right, one left. Blue flower bracelets to match the necklace Duri had gifted. They pause, before placing tying the last to one of the horns that crest from blue, from his wooden face. Blue, grinning always grinning. They meet his gaze.

“ _A blue flower on each day of his birth as the year passes,_ ” and their words are felt in their bones and in the earth—the air, their voice is rough, rasped raw and burnt, powerful.

They nod and swear it, to deny a spirit the simple payment of renewed offerings after all they had given—they swear it, and Xiang watches as the Blue Spirit nods, accepting.

“ _The debt is paid, his life is now yours._ ”

Xiang feels wetness upon his hands before realizing he is crying, again. Flowers. Blue flowers and he is gifted a child, a baby boy. He bows once more and rises, the Blue Spirit is gone. He is crying and his wife is crying and their baby had cried, now eyes open he smiles. And everything was worth it. Theirs, now theirs. 

* * *

Chuanli watches, children trail blue. Spirit, in darkened clothes with a wooden face, blue. Horned and fanged, a snarl—a threat. He watches children, spirit, darting running through the village, a threat to others maybe. Blue and wooden, they are grinning here, fanged, but grinning always grinning. A promise. Here, they are playful. And Chuanli is grateful, he knows of the spirits and this one does not match. They are cruel, they may not mean to be, but they are. And they do not help, he had prayed as his sons had gone off to war, he had prayed, it had been almost a century of war, and he had prayed, spirits do not help. Spirits are not kind—but this one is.

 _Earth screaming, it had told him, he had not seen the bridge break break breaking, but Chuanli knows the Earth and it had told him, it does not lie. He had prepared to lose his only granddaughter, life is not kind. Then blue had parted the water, child in arms. They had returned her to them._ They had saved Duri, just an earth kingdom girl, little, not special to any others but them. And they had saved her, asking simply for blue, a necklace, they took in return. They had blessed her. They had blessed this village. Now they run, chased by green and brown, their children playing freely with a spirit. Spirit disappearing into shadows when children grew too close, when nearly caught, then appearing in another—further away, a smile, fanged.

Spirit.

Blue Spirit.

They hover horizontal, and Chuanli wonders how the Fire Nation could ever think them human. They hover, not touching earth, almost laying, and tag the awed child before flipping and turning and running once more. They are playing. Playing as if they are the same, not human not spirit.

And he cannot help but wonder.

Spirit.

Blue Spirit.

They had built a shrine, his daughter-in-law had taken Duri to pray before it, taught her how to tend to it. The spirit had saved her life, had returned her to them for a necklace. Kind. 

Chuanli watches, as spirit weaves and flips and plays. Climbing walls and roofs. Watches how the children are drawn to them, not scared, never scared. The way the village had warmed at their entrance. And wonders, ~~and knows~~ , trickster. He looks up to blue, to the god of the people who wage war upon theirs, and wonders. 

* * *

The time they had spent under a darkened sky, no Tui no Agni, in a glowing beautiful world, pretty, where time never truly exists or passes, the Blue Spirit would dance and play with the other spirits, leaving sparks in their wake. Here, in the other world—the human world—they learn to play as they do, the children do. Meaning shadows, the shadows they use and exist and are, when used to appear and disappear; or the use of the air to float as guided by Feng, was _not fair_.

_The child before them, jaw open and eyes wide, they tag them and flip back to the earth below, grumbling below._

They play and they are watched. Human adults watch as they play and jump and run. They watch, and eyes widening, voices shrill, they caution. They caution the child, not fair, who had adamantly said so, foot meeting earth. They caution the child … _as if they were one to hurt a child—a monster._

They do not understand. But it is okay. They do not understand, but they can try and be _fair_. To be fair when playing with them. 

Humans, they had watched them in their world—and these especially, children, they are small and tiny and fragile. Squishy faces, they are cloaked to match the earth. They know this, they are small and they are not the same. So, they can try and be fair. Even if they do not understand. 

Agni filters through green green brown— _he had warmed for them, when they had returned to his sight. He had heard the baby, he had heard the cries and knew. They liked to think he was proud, to have made their father proud_ — he filters through leaves and trees as he heads to blue, as he moves to the sea. Tui will be joining them soon, and the children begin to sag.

One flops into the dirt.

They are small and tiny and fragile.  
And they grow tired. 

It was time to go.

Duri, hair braided cheeks stained with dirt, happy happy excited _tired_ her spark chants. She was tired and the children were tired. Adults leant against wood, hands moving to cover widening mouths, they agreed. They were tired, and it was time to go.

It had been fun, the Blue Spirit had fun running and playing and learning.

Humans were fun.

But they needed sleep after all, and they—the Blue Spirit—they had done what they had come for. _Healer and apprentice slipping from a building, through wooden door, surrounded in stone (they had tried, it was not their fault)_. They had done what they had come for. A baby was born, and they had helped. Agni above, that is all they want to do, all they ever want to do—help. 

They were not to interfere…but no one could claim to control a trickster child, they would help.

Here, here in this world—the human world—they can help. They hear their prayers after all, what else would they do, but help?

Tui touches blue, and winks.

_It is time to go._

Hand brushes soft soft brown, they smile down and Duri smiles up to them. They had promised and they had come. Looking up they nod to the parents, the children. They had had fun (but it is time to go).

So, they turn—and go.

* * *

_Blue Spirit, please, **please** , let my baby be born healthy._

They name the child Qīng.

**Author's Note:**

> The Blue Spirit had heard their prayers, so yeah I had to write him answering a few. 
> 
> _Blue Oolong Tea_ , yeah we have green tea so they have blue tea which can be mixed with other teas (lemon green tea), so blue oolong tea. 
> 
> Qīng--blue.
> 
> Hope you liked it, we should be heading north next...


End file.
